


It Is Unseen

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, SOTBE, atots, mullet!Stanley, post portal, set sometime after he started using the memory gun but before he went crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McGucket meets Stanley for the first time. He doesn't realize who he is.</p><p>14 x 100-word drabbles. Angst. Post-portal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> Slight blood mention, some violence. The Stan brothers and their sibling relationship (or lack thereof) play a part in this story, so, just a heads up.

He hadn’t expected there to be anyone in the house.

He’d visited during the window which he remembers the Man normally designating for field research. It’s a period that lasts a minimum of three hours and a maximum of… well, who knew. It would, however, be the safest time for him to retrieve his Work without risking contact with the other.

He can’t remember the Man’s name, doesn’t remember why This is important. All he can recall is His face, and that the Information will turn dangerous in His hands.

Fiddleford opens the door to the barrel of a shotgun.

x x x

He screams.

So does the Man.

 _“Get out,”_ the Man bellows.

He lunges clumsily at Fiddleford. The other shrieks in fear and barely manages to twist aside.

The Man takes two steps towards him… then simply collapses to the floor.  

Fiddleford lowers his hands, still trying to catch his breath. The Man’s probably just pretending to have fallen so He can grab Fiddleford once he gets close. Fiddleford should turn around, run away, try again another day…  

But there’s something terribly _off_ about this entire scene. The Man is trembling. His breath is labored.

There’s blood all over His back.

x x x

Fiddleford stares at the fallen figure before him. It’s impossible for him to leave in good conscience now.

He _could_ leave. _That_ was easy. Whether he can sleep again _after_ leaving will be a different story.

He thinks he’s _supposed_ to hate the Man? But… he doesn’t want Him to come to harm. Certainly not while he bears sole witness to the situation.

He nudges at the other with the toe of his foot, just to be sure. The Man moans, but makes no move to stir otherwise.

Fiddleford steels himself. Then picks Him up and drags them both inside.

x x x

The Man is out cold. Good. It would make things easier.

Fiddleford props Him up by His chest against a chair, before rooting through the kitchen for first aid supplies. Tattered pieces of memories float back to him as he walks throughout the house: snippets of conversations, a familiar, nostalgic laughter, and squiggles of impossibly long equations.

The wound is a complete disaster. Fiddleford is no medic, but it’s obvious from the weeping pus and the discoloration of the skin around it that it’s been festering for quite a while.

The Man shivers, as Fiddleford touches His forehead.

He’s _burning_.      

x x x

It takes a couple of hours, and several wet rags and sponges, but Fiddleford eventually manages to get the Man decently sterilized.

The wound looks marginally better, once the pus and blood is cleaned up. Fiddleford frowns at its shape. It’s fairly large, occupying the entirety of the Man’s right shoulder blade: an elaborate, intricate design, composed of geometric shapes and straight arrows, ending with a large diamond shape at its base. The symbol looks… _familiar_ , but he can’t quite place where he recognizes it from just yet.

In any case, Fiddleford’s done. Time to collect what he’d came for.

x x x

He has what he wanted.

He finds that he _still_ can’t leave.

Fiddleford sighs through his nose, forlornly thumping his head back into the wall. He’s taken a seat opposite the comatose Man, who’s now snoring lightly under the cover of clean comforters. (He’d made sure to put Him on His stomach and to keep the injured shoulder aired. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table for after He regains consciousness.)

 _As soon as He wakes up, I’ll leave,_ he promises himself.

The Man stirs, brows furrowing. He mumbles a single word:

“Stanford…”

– and _everything_ comes rushing back.

x x x

Fiddleford leaps up. His chair topples over with a crash.

The Man groans. His eyelids start to flutter.

Fiddleford swears. He needs to _leave_. _Right now._ Right this _very_ _instant_ , before he – !

“Don’t go.”

The Man hasn’t opened His eyes. He stirs feebly beneath the covers, whimpering as He continues to try shrinking away from His own nightmares.

“…m’sorry,” He whispers. “m’so… fuckin’ _sorry_ , please come back, just please, _please_ come back…”  

Fiddleford sits back down. He curses his weak resolve.

“…I’m here.” He has no idea why he’s responding, but he feels like he should. “I’m not going anywhere.”

x x x

When he wakes, the Man is staring at him.

Fiddleford quickly raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I used to work here you passed out trying to kill me I couldn’t leave until I knew you weren’t dead.”

“’Couldn’t leave’…?”

The Man scrambles to sit up. He immediately collapses with a pained grunt.

“Don’t move.” Fiddleford’s over Him instantly. “Your wound was badly infected. Surprised you weren’t dead yet, t’be perfectly honest.”

“You’ve got it wrong.” The Man winces. “I’m Stan… ford. _I’m_ Stanford Pines – ”

“Really. Then what’s _my_ name?”

Silence.

“Yeah.” Fiddleford snorts. “I thought so.”

x x x

“Explain what you were doing bleeding to death in Stanford’s house, Stanley Pines.” Fiddleford crosses his arms. He doesn’t budge from his seat. “And where is he? I’d thought he’d be back from the field by now.”

“You… _know_ about me?”

“Twin brother, right? He mentioned you some, yeah. None of it very good, I’m afraid.”

Stanley almost sags into the pillows.

“We… got in’na fight. Got injured. Stanford, he…” Stanley buries his face into the pillow. “I lost ‘im.”

“Let me guess. He fell into the portal.”

The look on Stanley’s face confirms all that he needs to know.

x x x

“You have to _help_ me.”

“You’re going to re-open your wound…!”

“Please. I’m beggin’ ya. _Please!_ ” Stan’s gripping his arms so tightly that Fiddleford fears his bones might snap. “You’re the _only_ one who can help me – help me bring him back. Please, just PLEASE, _help me!_ ”

Stanley keeps pleading, keeps begging even as he breaks down into heaving sobs and desperate, feverish rambling. Fiddleford crumples together to the ground with him, unable to sustain their weight.

“Okay,” he says. Something heavy knots itself inside his stomach, curdling like thick poison. “But first… let’s get you all better.”

x x x

The days pass quickly.

He pacifies Stanley’s worries by telling him he doesn’t wish for the other to aggravate himself.

“The faster you heal – ”

“ – the faster we can get back to work on the portal. Yeah, I know,” Stanley huffs.  

Stanley makes surprisingly good company. He talks. A lot. Fiddleford is sure at least 80% of his tales are made up, but it’s a refreshing distraction from the whispers in his mind.

 _It’s going to be okay._ He smiles at Stan while the other brags about breeding super-wolves and selling them illegally. _Everything’s going to be just fine._

x x x

“Tomorrow.” Stan windmills his arm, testing out his muscles. It’s clear that he’s anxious about finally getting back to work on the portal again. “We’ve slacked off enough.”

Fiddleford hums absently. “Someone’s mighty excited.”

Stan grins and punches Fiddleford’s shoulder with his healed arm. “I still can’t believe my luck, honestly. Runnin’ into the guy who saved my life AND who can figure out how t’restart the portal? It’s as good as winnin’ the lottery!”

He laughs. “Best have a good rest tonight, then. We’ll get up early tomorrow.”

Stan bids him goodnight. Fiddleford exhales shakily as the other leaves.

x x x

_Stanley,_

Fiddleford is nowhere in sight.

_I quit the project for a reason._

Stanley tears through all the rooms in the house, frantic.

“Fiddlesticks!” His voice quakes. “Fiddleford! ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!”

_I still want to forget what I’ve seen. What I’ve done._

Stanley spots the torn page when it flutters from a stray breeze. He scrambles over, snatches it up. His eyes grow wider with each sentence.  

_I’m sorry for lying to you. I won’t be, by the time we meet again._

“Shit.” Stanley starts shaking. “Dammit…!”

_Good luck._

“You should have just left me to DIE!”

_Fiddleford H. McGucket_

x x x

He doesn’t understand why He’s so angry.

He doesn’t even know who He is.

 _I’m sorry_ , he stutters, around a mouthful of blood, as the Man continues raging at him, shaking him like a rag doll, _I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this – oh, lord. Oh, dear. Please,_ please _don’t… I-Is there anything I can do, to…? What can I –_

He flinches at the raised fist, but… the blow never lands. The Man shoves Himself off and starts staggering away.

Fiddleford apologizes again for upsetting Him, and bids the Man a good day anyway.


End file.
